


ribbon trust

by cave_canem



Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, discussion of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 18:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19836331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cave_canem/pseuds/cave_canem
Summary: Early relationship problems—not usually Monty's cup of tea. Unless they include Percy, which they do, and then it all becomes all right.





	ribbon trust

“I don’t keep doing this on purpose,” Monty says. “I swear.”

“Just—there.”

Percy swabs a few times at the spill growing on Monty’s shirt, ineffectively. His efforts are very half-hearted, which is already more than Monty feels like doing.

The bar is loud behind them, alight with conversations and music, voices cutting through the hubbub like the tang of alcohol in an overly sweet drink. The simile is fitting, since it’s one of those Monty spilled down his expensive shirt. For the third time in a month.

He tugs at the material, wincing at the sticky sensation over his gut and sucking in his stomach like it’ll help, but his skin is already damp. Monty hates being wet; another thing that usually tips the balance against water-related activities and holidays.

“I’m not sure you’ll be able to save this one,” Percy says, still holding a few crumpled napkins.

They both eye the definitely pink stain on the previously bright white shirt. It’s decided—Monty will never wear pale clothes when he goes out ever again. He might try never going out ever again as well, since it does not seem to be working out so well for him either.

When he tells Percy as much, Percy shakes his head, smiling crookedly like he always does when he thinks Monty’s being ridiculous, an expression they’re both familiar with.

“Don’t make promises you won’t keep,” he says, and his fingers close around Monty’s wrist easily, tugging it aside so he can have another go at it with the napkins.

Monty lets him do it, mostly because his mouth goes dry in a way that has nothing to do with most of his drink having landed _on_ him instead of in. He feels dizzyingly aware of Percy’s skin on his, the roughness of his fingertips against the blue veins flowing inside Monty’s wrists.

 _Musician hands_ , he thinks.

“Your pulse is all over the place,” Percy laughs.

“That’s because you’re near me, darling,” Monty’s mouth babbles before his brain can sew it shut.

Percy peeks at him through his eyelashes, a feat since he’s taller than Monty even sitting down. They seem to remember that they don’t need to be shy anymore at the same time. Monty grins; Percy laughs. He pokes at Monty’s stomach with the balled-up napkins, and drops them on the table.

“I think I just made it worse,” he says.

Monty looks down. The napkins are blue and have left faint colour traces on the fabric, bits of fluff stuck to the damp patch.

“I’ll just throw it away,” he says, shrugging. “Or you might want to take it off me first.”

Monty gets a kiss for his unsubtle innuendo and his wink. It’s not a new development, but it’s not old enough that Monty’s heart doesn’t stutter to a stop before going again twice as fast. Privately, Monty hopes it will never happen; he doesn’t think he can ever get tired of Percy, but he knows he sometimes takes things for granted if they stick with him long enough, and that’s a flaw he’s trying to work on.

Rather than tell Percy this, like the part of his brain that drank one cocktail wants him to do, he opens his lips under Percy’s and deepens the kiss, drawing him nearer. They’re arriving at the tipping point where one of them usually ends up climbing in the other’s lap or pulling them flush against each other, when Percy draws back.

“Wait,” he says against Monty’s lips. His hand is still curled against Monty’s wrist; he uses it to guide them apart.

Monty’s heart is beating wildly in his good ear. He twists his hand in Percy’s until their palms are fitted against each other, but the background noise is becoming too loud for him to filter anything. The music thumps louder and people’s voice surge up in response. Monty closes his eyes briefly against the dizziness that his hearing imbalance causes. When he opens them again, he only has time to catch the tail-end of Percy’s sentence, and even then, only through the way his mouth moves.

“What?” he asks.

Percy opens his mouth again but reconsiders, glancing at the speakers in the back of the room. He gestures at Monty to turn aside. When he does, Percy fits his mouth against the shell of his working ear and says, slow and smooth like velvet against naked skin, “We should go.”

It takes all of Monty’s composure not to jump down the high bar stool he’s sitting at and drag Percy to the bathroom. First, because he’s promised himself to stop, after one very unfortunate experience in a bar’s bathroom that involved less clothing and more pairs of eyes than Monty is _really_ comfortable with. Second, because as much as Monty throws himself at Percy, the fact remains that they’ve yet to do anything that might be considered going farther than a make-out.

It’s new to Monty as well. He’s used to sex more than feeling, and he’s not sure that he’s perfectly content with their current situation of learning some without the other.

But then Percy says things like, “We should go,” and his hand is hot against Monty’s, and there’s nothing Monty can do to repress the surge of arousal that courses through him at the sight of him, beaming and happy.

“Let’s go,” he agrees, swallowing everything that is circling around his brain and banging in corners that aren’t supposed to be there.

They slide off their stools, making their way to the exit with their hands still linked. A group of five or six people come in right as they reach the door, and Percy has to steady Monty when he trips over the threshold.

“You okay?” he asks, gripping both of Monty’s shoulders.

Monty snuggles closer, looking up in Percy’s familiar face. “Mmm,” he says, “could be better.” He slides his fingers down the front of Percy’s shirt, like his brain has left his body once and for all. “Find us somewhere private and it might get better.”

“There’s a back alley over there,” Percy says, turning Monty around so they’re front-to-back.

Monty echoes, “An alley,” more than half convinced that Percy’s joking—but what if he’s not? Monty’s never had sex in a back alley, however disreputable his former flings were—just at the same time Percy raises his hand to hail a cab.

“I’m joking. I’m not having sex in an alley,” he says, bending down to press a lightning-quick kiss to Monty’s temple.

Monty chokes on his answer. Luckily Percy is already moving, pulling him in the cab and giving his address, like the fact that they’re apparently going to have sex for the first time in less than ten minutes is old news.

They spend the drive and the climb up to Percy’s fourth-floor flat in silence. Good for Monty’s nerves and his composure, so that he doesn’t pounce on his boyfriend right in the middle of the hallway. Then Percy stops, keys in hand, in front of his door.

“Monty,” he starts, but Monty’s had enough of composure: fifteen minutes at a time, when faced with the reality of having sex with Percy—of Percy _wanting_ him, which, granted, Monty’s had an inkling of in the past weeks, but not _like that_ —is the most he can go.

Percy’s mouth opens readily under Monty’s, Percy letting out a muffled groan which goes straight to Monty’s groin with an electric _zing_ through his body.

Percy hasn’t turned the key in the lock; Monty reaches behind him, unlocks the door with an efficiency that surprises him for a brief moment, before his mind is full of other more interesting things to move and feel. It’s his turn to steady Percy as he trips backward over the threshold, on his welcome mat that Monty’s told him a thousand time to place outside rather than inside. Catching Percy at the hips is natural; sliding his fingers in his beltloops and tugging him closer, much more intense and enjoyable.

Let it be said that Monty is a simple man.

Percy twists them around when they stumble past the kitchen so that he’s the one leading, even though Monty knows the layout of Percy’s flat almost better than his own, and pushes Monty gently on the couch.

He probably intended for them to end up half-sitting, but Monty, ever-gracious, sprawls into the soft cushions and almost falls off the couch, letting out a very undignified squeak.

“Stay with me,” Percy laughs in his jaw, going back to sucking what will most certainly be the biggest hickey of Monty’s life in the soft skin under his ear.

“Perce,” Monty calls after a minute, unable to completely stop from angling his head aside to give Percy more freedom of movement, “I hate myself right now, but the weather isn’t really scarf-friendly.”

Percy raises his head, detaching his lips from Monty’s skin, and looks at Monty quizzically for a minute before his mouth curls around in a cartoonish “o”.

“Sorry,” he says, brushing his thumb against the spot like he might rub it away. “I didn’t mean—sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Monty manages, but the end of his sentence devolves in a gasp when Percy’s thigh presses against his very much real erection.

“Sorry!”

Monty wriggles under Percy, inching back on the couch so that he isn’t bracing himself on the floor with his legs. It leads to more pressing and more rubbing—nothing Monty would complain about, and hopefully Percy neither.

“Stop apologising,” he says after he’s got one good noise from Percy.

Percy buries his head in Monty’s neck, their legs mingling and crotches aligning. “Dear God, Monty,” he says, and: “Don’t stop,” and: “Wait.”

Monty’s hand freezes where it is on Percy’s belt.

“Wait?” he repeats, to make sure he’s heard it right.

Percy raises his head, knocking their forehead together like he intends to literally knock some sense into Monty, and drawing himself back by leaning on his elbows. “Should we—” His tongue darts out, licking his bottom lip. “Monty, you’re not listening.”

“I am,” Monty protests, forcefully tearing his eyes away to meet Percy’s. That’s not much better. Monty really is in it deep. “You were saying something in the likes of having sex in a back alley.”

“That was half an hour ago.”

“About twice the time a quickie in an alley would take.”

Percy pokes him in the stomach. “Will you stop?”

“Stopping now,” Monty says.

In an effort to appear obliging, he takes his hand off Percy’s belt, which neither of them seems to have noticed before now hasn’t moved the whole time, and places it on Percy’s back, running up and down. He can’t quite bring himself to stop touching him, and Percy seems very intent in putting space between their fronts.

Now that he has the floor, Percy seems more hesitant than he was in the middle of rubbing himself against Monty’s erection.

“Should we talk about it?” he tries.

Monty’s rule about pillow talk is usually that should two people indulge in it, it should be reserved to _after_ the actual sex. He’s done everything in his power to avoid it with his previous partners, although obviously Percy is the exception to the rule, because Monty can’t imagine a world where they stop talking, wherever that is.

“Sure,” he says anyway. As he rubs, he can feel the tension seeping from Percy’s back. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know. Aren’t you the one who’s good at that?”

Monty raises an eyebrow. “Good at feelings? Have you _met_ me?”

“I’m talking about sex.”

“Sex is more of a _physical_ activity—”

“Monty.” At Percy’s pleading look, Monty shuts up.

“I just don’t understand what there is to talk about,” he starts cautiously. “We’re dating.” He’s almost taken by an irrational fear as he says it, because it’s still new enough that he has to convince himself he’s not dreaming sometimes in the morning. “Sex is just another natural development. Unless—” He remembers Felicity, her staunch defence of her own asexuality “—it’s not something you’re interested in? Because I can’t pretend it’s mutual—I mean you know me, right—but you know I’ll do anything for you, and if you need to we can talk about it. Which I’m realising now might have been the purpose of this conversation all along, so I’ll shut up—”

Percy interrupts him with a kiss. Teeth feature more than they should, maybe, because of Percy’s contagious laugh.

“Not that, you goose,” he says. He nudges his nose to Monty’s. “Sex is just—I want to make sure that it doesn’t change anything.”

Monty blinks. “Should it?” he asks before he can analyse Percy’s sentence more precisely and decide on a more appropriate answer. “It won’t for me. At all.”

Percy looks at him for a long moment before scrunching up his nose. “You’re aware of how that sounds, right?”

Monty can guess. “Not that good?”

They’ve been friends too long for the conversation to be setback by a minor miscommunication like this one. “Explain,” Percy says.

“Why do I have to be the one talking about his feelings here?”

“Because I already did, succinctly. Go on.”

“Percy, I don’t know how to say it—it’s just, we’ve been dating for two weeks. We’ve fallen asleep and woken up in the same bed as boyfriends. We’ve been on dates, we’ve kissed, we—why should sex be any different to it?”

Watching Percy’s attentive but neutral face makes it difficult to articulate his thoughts. Monty can’t totally wrap his head around the issue. Maybe it’s been his own behaviour in regard to relationships and sex in the past that have made him incapable of seeing the importance it can have in a relationship. He has to fight against a flash of fear, a familiar anxiety that’s he’s _done it_ , he’s fucked up the one good thing that he has. Maybe the issue isn’t with Percy—it’s with Monty for not seeing it in the first place.

Unless Percy makes it an issue because of Monty. Old suspicions rear their ugly heads in the back of his mind, rising steady like the water and bubbling up until he feels he’ll suffocate. It’s always the same thing, his father’s voice louder and more truthful because more hurtful than the feeble lies he’s been telling himself to banish them.

He nudges Percy’s arm, wriggling under him in a way so far removed from sensuality that the contrast with earlier is almost ironically funny.

“Bad headspace,” Percy asks, barely a question, as he sits up at the other end of the couch.

Monty scrambles in a similar position, leaning against the armrest and holding his legs close to his chest. It would be an uncomfortable position, if he were still hard, but sex is both so far from his mind and at the forefront of his thoughts that his head is spinning.

“Sorry,” he says, taking a few breaths. It’s not that bad. He can do it. It would be stupid to get triggered just because of Percy’s legitimate concerns about sex—an activity in which, Monty knows, he’s far less experienced than Monty himself.

“You okay?” Percy asks, reaching for Monty.

Monty doesn’t flinch. He’s proud of it, for a moment, before Percy’s hand presses against his forearm warmly and he’s reminded of the situation.

Why are they even dealing with Monty’s own issues when they started by addressing Percy’s? The cynical part of Monty admires his own talent for redirecting every situation to himself.

“I’m good,” he says, slowly extending his legs. He crawls across the couch into Percy’s welcoming touch, letting him arrange them until they’re fully in each other’s arms, Monty’s deaf ear pressed against Percy’s chest.

He can’t hear his heartbeat, but he can almost feel it against his cheek. It’s steady and a little fast. Monty smiles in the fabric of Percy’s shirt.

“Why’re you smiling?”

Because Monty can make Percy’s heart quicken or slow down. Because Percy chose him to be the person he holds in his arms at eleven on a Friday night.

“Nothing,” he says. “We were talking about sex.”

“I don’t feel like talking about it anymore,” Percy says. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“I’m perfectly good.” Monty leans back until he can look up at Percy’s face. “I generally find that it’s the best moment to lay ground rules.”

“We don’t need ground rules, do we?”

“Sex won’t change the way I view you or our relationship,” Monty says instead of answering. “I want it, if you want it too.” After a while, he adds: “Although I’m not calling you daddy in bed or anything. That’s my ground rule.”

Percy laughs. “Dear God,” he says. “Anything else?”

“Don’t slap me. Or pull my hair. Or touch my hair when it’s wet. Or pull me under the spray when we’re having shower sex. Or hold me against the wall, because the tiles are cold. Actually, maybe we should abstain from shower sex for a while—”

“How do you even wash yourself when you hate water so much?”

“I don’t hate water. I simply dislike it being in contact with my skin. Or hair.”

“You and your hair.” Percy rolls his eyes, but he kisses Monty anyway, cradling his head between his big, long hands. “Maybe we should try having sex at all before we decide on banning anything permanently.”

“Sure.”

Percy’s eyebrow comes up. “You don’t sound very convinced.”

“I’ve dreaded every single visit to the hairdresser for the past twenty years. Sex—even with you—isn’t going to change that.”

“Ah,” Percy says, nodding wisely. “A sceptic. I see how it is.”

Percy’s fingers are brushing Monty’s hair back. His kiss is long and soft and Monty completely loses himself in it. Percy has that effect on him, whether he tries or not. Kissing leads to shorter open-mouthed presses of their lips together until Monty breaks the contact with a sigh.

He leans his face against Percy’s shoulder.

“I don’t really feel like sex anymore,” he admits. There’s something that absolutely puts a damper on Monty’s amorous mood about the words “don’t call me daddy in bed”.

“Yeah,” Percy says. “Me neither. Bed?”

Monty nods in his shirt, but it still takes them another fifteen minutes before they move from the couch into the bathroom. They squeeze together in front of the small sink with their toothbrushes, hip-butting each other out of the way, until Percy rolls his eyes and wanders away to find Monty’s usual pajamas. It’s actually one of Percy’s shirts, except it’s so big on Monty that he could almost go commando unnoticed. He doesn’t, because he has some sense. But he could. He might. In the future.

It’s a thought he holds close to his chest, not because he’s afraid of Percy knowing it but because it warms him as efficiently as a hot water bottle in the winter. They might not be there yet, but the certainty of it is reassuring, as it always is.

Percy settles into bed next to Monty, drawing the covers way past Monty’s head and tucking his side comfortably under his chin.

“Hey,” Monty protests, emerging from under. The blankets rub at his hair. He blows on the few strands that fall in front of his eyes.

“Sorry,” Percy says, faux innocent. “I didn’t see you there. You’re so tiny.”

“I’m cuddle-sized.” Monty rolls over Percy, landing across his chest. “Cuddle me.”

“Gladly.”

Percy’s arms close around his back and Monty makes an involuntary sound of pleasure in his throat. He tucks his nose in Percy’s neck, breathing in the scent of his nightly face wash, taking in the soothing way with which Percy’s breathing lifts the fine hairs on his temple.

They last about five minutes before Percy starts squirming. Monty closes his eyes and starts counting in his head.

“My arm’s falling asleep,” Percy complains, wiggling his shoulder under Monty’s head.

“ _Fourteen_. Ha.”

They both roll away and rearrange themselves in the middle of the bed, facing each other like parentheses. Or one parenthesis and an apostrophe, if they way Monty’s feet brush Percy’s knees when he draws up his legs slightly is any indication.

God, Monty is making height jokes. It’s really time to sleep. The rest can wait for the morning, and any day after that.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment if you liked the fic! You can reblog it and find me on tumblr @[jsteneil](https://jsteneil.tumblr.com/post/186335722276/ribbon-trust-cavecanem-the-gentlemans-guide)


End file.
